


Coping, Blooming

by klutzysurgeon



Category: Ib (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Getting to Know Each Other, Psychological Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2018-10-19 01:40:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10629513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/klutzysurgeon/pseuds/klutzysurgeon
Summary: The one where coping comes in multiple forms; or, where Ib takes up painting and Garry’s aspirations as a fashion designer involves nearly more mannequins than he can stomach, but the macarons are as good as he promised and that's enough.A fic following the Promise of Reunion ending, from reunion to the past, adulthood, and more. Strictly platonic for the most part, though since this does follow well into adulthood, there's probably going to be sweet romance later on.





	1. Promise of Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a foreword, Ib is canonically 9 and I'm considering Garry to be 18 and gender-nonconforming.

Ib takes a dizzying step away from the painting, wondering why she’d had her back to it and why her heart is racing. Had something frightened her…? She can’t recall anything like that. Actually… All her memories are kind of fuzzy. Museums must be awfully boring if she can’t even remember much past walking in with her parents. Although, as she walks down the echoing halls, all the exhibits seem kind of familiar…

...And terrifying, even the ones that aren’t scary at all. How odd. She can’t help but glance worriedly at every painting she passes, and nearly bolts down the hallway when another visitor walks across the hallway in front of her. And aren’t the lights in here too bright? Her mother was wrong; she doesn’t like museums much at all.

Ib wanders aimlessly, hoping to run into her parents and hoping even more so that they’re ready to leave, though she has no idea how long it’s been since they got here. The nagging feeling of forgetting something won’t leave her either as she nervously toys with the edge of her skirt, biting her lip. A quick check of her pockets confirms her worst fears– she’s lost her handkerchief.

Mother is going to  _ kill  _ her.

What she does find instead is a candy, and that’s even stranger. She’s not really fond of sweets, and she definitely doesn’t remember having lemon flavored ones. Actually, she didn’t even know lemon  _ was  _ a candy flavor. Lemons are sour, but candy is supposed to be sweet…?

Maybe it came in a variety bag. Her father does buy those, sometimes, though she’s only allowed one a day. How lame to have wasted it on lemon.

There’s a painting on the floor this time, and she knows the title before she reads the card. “Abyss of the Deep,” Ib murmurs aloud, red eyes wide when the visitor beside her comments.

“Wow, you can read that word? You’re a smart girl,” the brunette smiles. “Such a captivating picture, isn’t it? I feel like I could fall right into it…”

“You can,” Ib says without thinking. She frowns at herself right after– that was childish, and she’s not childish. Of course you can’t fall into paintings. She’s old enough to know better, and her parents always praise her for being so mature, even if she’s only nine and sometimes thinks that maybe she ought to be childish. “I mean, um… It feels like I have.”

That earns a tiny, refined laugh from the stranger. “So wise! Yes, though not literally, I feel like I have as well.”

Somehow, Ib doesn’t think they feel the same way, but she just nods and excuses herself, wanting to step away from the guardrails and the edge of the painting lest she trip and… fall.

There’s only one man in the next room, and still no sign of her parents. The painting on the wall is of a coughing man, and… it’s just named that, too. How boring. She swears she hears it cough as she walks away, but it must be the man in front of her.

Her first thought is that maybe he’s a hobo, because his jacket is awfully tattered.

But then she reconsiders– it’s fashion, isn’t it? Just his style.

Then she frowns at herself for making two assumptions so rudely about a stranger, and finds herself walking closer to the statue and to him, torn between staring at them both. The rose feels… alive. Is that what her parents had been talking about when they’d said Guertena was a great artist? She believes it for sure, small hand reaching out before stopping at the guardrail. It’s a big statue, bigger than her and surely older as well but she can’t help but feel that it’s terribly, terribly fragile.

_ You must know the weight of life. _

“The weight of life…”

“Hm?”

The man beside her turns to her, tilting his head down curiously. “Did you say something?”

“Oh, no, I…” Ib pauses, distracted by the soft-spoken voice. It’s very soothing. “I was wondering what this one is named.”

“Oh! I’m standing right in front of the placard, aren’t I?” The lavender haired man steps back, sheepishly rubbing his neck. “Sorry about that.” He bends to peer at the gold title card, then back at the roses. “Embodiment of Spirit, it says. Do you want to hear the description, too?”

Ib gives a tiny nod, captivated though she doesn’t know the first word.

And yet, somehow, she thinks she might understand it.

“Okay. It says “Beautiful at a glance, but if you get too close, it will induce pain. It can only blossom in wholesome bodies.” Huh… That’s rather bittersweet, isn’t it?”

She nods, sharing the feeling. “Melancholy…” she says. What a strange word. The way it rolls off her tongue, she doesn’t think she’s ever said it before. She doesn’t even know the meaning, only that it… feels like this. Like sadness that sits in her stomach.

Like forgetting something important.

“Very.” The stranger frowns, taking note of her forlorn posture. “Ah… I’m sorry if I said anything to trouble you, Ib…”

“...Ib?”

“Huh?” He pauses, visible eye narrowed in confusion. “I guess I did say Ib. That’s funny, I don’t know why… or who that is.”

“...My name.” She stands a little taller, feeling like she should be shouting though her voice is barely above a whisper. “My name is Ib.”

“It is? That’s… strange. You definitely didn’t tell it to me, did you?” When she shakes her head, he fidgets, a gnawing and nameless anxiety eating away at him. “...Well, what a funny coincidence. It’s a very nice name.” The kind that haunts you. He sticks his hands in the pockets of his coat jacket, taking a step back. “I should probably be going, I suppose. I hope you enjoy the rest of the museum! You’re still young enough to enjoy it, so don’t get too depressed, okay? See you.”

He starts to walk away, and Ib reaches out her hand, following. “Wait…!” she mumbles. There’s something wrong. There’s something wrong. There’s something  _ wrong.  _ Why is she following a stranger?

But she’s  _ not. He’s _ not.

He pauses and she nearly walks into him, confused when he pulls a cloth from his pocket. “What’s this…? A handkerchief?”

“It’s mine…!” Ib says, voice louder though not much above normal range. He turns around, eyes wide as he inspects the fine silk.

“...Ib,” he reads. “You’re right, it’s embroidered right there. But… why do I have this?” It unfolds as he turns it around, revealing the bloody stain around the center. “...Blood?”

Why would a little girl have blood on her handkerchief?

His first response is panic, heart racing because  _ what if Ib got hurt, he wasn’t supposed to let her get hurt _ and that single thought is enough.

She didn’t get hurt.

“...I did,” he mumbles. “I… hurt my hand. On the glass…” Memories, vivid and nearly hallucinogenic in their quality. Fear. Pain. Fear.

Courage.

“...and a little girl gave me this, to bandage it with. After we escaped Mary. After we escaped…”

He kneels down to her level so quickly you can hear his knees hit against the linoleum floor, holding it out with a hand that nearly shakes. “Ib… Ib, we did it! Oh goodness, all of that was real… the paintings, and Mary too. What  _ was  _ that place?” He shakes his head, a small smile spreading. “Well, it doesn’t matter now, I suppose. We made it! Oh, Ib…”

The man freezes, leaning slightly away from where he’d encroached on her space. She hasn’t said a single thing and fear begins to take root.

He’d nearly forgotten– had she…? “Ib? Do you… remember?”

Ib reaches into her pocket, pulling out the lemon candy and holding it out to him. She can’t bring herself to speak, throat tightening as tears well up but she nods, managing to croak out his name as she throws herself at him in a hug. “Garry…!”

Garry wraps his arms around her without a second thought, embracing the small child who clings to his torso like he might disappear. He understands– he thinks that fear might follow them both for quite awhile. He rubs her back soothingly as she sniffles, blinking away his own tears as he does so. “It’s okay, Ib… We did it, we really did it…”

It takes a few moments before either can let go, and some part of his mind reminds him how this might look to strangers but he can’t bring himself to care that much, except. Except.

Except he has people to get back to who are surely starting to worry by now and Ib has parents who  _ must  _ be wondering where she is by now. When he pulls away, he reaches into his pocket for his watch and he’s infinitely relieved to see that it’s working again, ticking hand showing it’s been only  _ minutes  _ and he doesn’t even question it, at this point.

“...Would it be alright if I hang on to this awhile longer?” Garry asks, holding up the handkerchief. “It… wouldn’t do to return it in this state, right? I’ll get it cleaned up and then return it to you.”

Ib stares at him with worried eyes, and oh, he understands that fear. That once you part, you might not meet again. After that gallery, he thinks they’re going to have a  _ lot  _ of fears. And they’re the only two who can speak of it without sounding crazy– and that itself is crazy. She’s just a little girl, seven years his junior. But… “Hey, don’t look so worried. I told you I’m taking you out for macarons, didn’t I?”

“...You did,” Ib nods, sniffling.

“So trust me,” Garry smiles, standing up to go. If he doesn’t leave now, he might not ever. “We’ll definitely see each other again!”

“...Okay!” Ib calls, clutching the lemon candy. She does trust him. She trusts him with her life, with her rose, and she watches him go until he’s out of view, until her parents find her staring at the rose and she whispers a goodbye to the museum as she leaves, a goodbye to Guertena, a goodbye to Mary and the helpful artworks and the scary ones.

She has to take all the paintings off the walls of her bedroom and shove them in her closet and shove a chair under the knob to get to sleep, but she’s exhausted enough that it doesn’t keep her awake long, weariness tugging at her bones and weighing her into the mattress.

Funny, Ib thinks, that her parents didn’t notice anything. Did it really not change her at all? She flinches at the shadows when she turns off the lights and doubts it, doubts it, doubts it.

She turns the lights back on.

It’s only later that night as she’s just about to fall asleep that she thunks her head against her pillow to muffle a scream, cursing herself quietly for being so careless.

Just  _ how _ are they going to meet again…!?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I hope the Ib fandom isn't completely dead, because boy do I have a lot to write. This could end up being somewhere near 20 chapters if people are interested in reading, so I hope you enjoy and leave a comment if you do!


	2. Art

It takes days before Garry is able to sleep without waking up screaming, which worries his roommates to no end. He’s officially banned from scary movies forever after he blames it on museum paintings and horror movies in which they come to life, which is fine since he doesn’t feel like he’ll ever watch them again anyway.

Really, they can’t measure up anymore. Some part of him wonders if _anything_ will actually scare him again, and as he brandishes his lighter when a stray paper flutters off the table, he amends that thought. Maybe nothing _new_ will ever scare him again, but _these_ fears… might linger, for awhile.

Which makes it all the more awful that he’s been back to the museum five times now. It’s almost masochism, the way he keeps returning, but he has to, silk handkerchief in hand. He was so _stupid._ He’d rushed out so quickly before he lost the nerve to and completely forgotten to plan _how_ or _when_ or even _where_ they’d meet up again. All he has is a name to go on, and it’s a given name at that, not even a family name.

And while it’s nice that Ib felt comfortable enough to give him her first name, it doesn’t help him find her. He’s looked.

All he has is this museum, and some small hope that she might be thinking the same. So he comes here, whenever he’s not working, and he sits on the bench outside (he can’t bring himself to go inside, and why on earth would he want to, anyway?) and he…

Sketches.

Well, they’re not sketches exactly. Not in the sense of being artwork. They’re clothing designs, fashion sketches dreamed up and put to paper. He’d dug out an old notebook of his, half-full of old designs and on the first page is his coat, the first thing he’d ever brought to life. Messy stitches hidden neatly inside, he’s been wearing it since he was sixteen and holed away in his bedroom to make it, praying his parents didn’t find him sewing.

As if he wasn’t enough of a disappointment to them already.

After the gallery, though, it’s… an odd sort of courage that has bloomed in him. Like he nearly died already, so why not? Not even his parent’s disappointment is as terrifying. Funny how it puts everything in perspective at the same time it warps everything, to the point he can’t go anywhere without his lighter (full of fluid, topped off anytime it’s used) and can’t look at paintings without feeling his heart rate spike, a cold sweat threatening to break out at any moment. Sometimes he’s afraid of his own sketches, too, afraid that maybe any art can be imbued with life like Guertena’s but he tries not to think about that, because, well. Even if that were true, he’s not making monstrous things. Just clothing.

Normal, non-murderous clothing that most certainly won’t be coming to life, thank you.

Although, normal might be a bit of a stretch. His fashion taste is… eccentric, to say the least. He likes his own style, but doubts gnaw at him that anyone else will. Still, he sketches, designing whatever occurs to him. There’s certainly no end of inspiration; people always walk past this bench, and… Terrifying as it was, the gallery was certainly inspiring from an artistic point of view. That was why he had been there in the first place, after all. Everyone always says that museums are great for boosting creativity. Somehow, he doubts this is what they were talking about, but he supposes it worked either way.

But still, no sign of Ib. He can hardly blame her if she doesn’t ever come back; it just leaves him feeling rather empty to consider that possibility. Sure, their friendship is an odd bond, but strong nonetheless. Honestly, he probably trusts her more than his own roommates, and that’s saying something. With the kinds of situations they’d been in… they’d _had_ to trust each other with their lives.

Either of them could have just been another trick of the gallery, another painting like Mary– how terrifying to think about.

No matter how hard he tries, he can’t convince himself they won’t meet again. It’s silly for sure, and he’s not normally so stubborn, but… Ib had sparked a lot of things in him. Determination. Courage. A passion he’d nearly given up on. He doesn’t want to lose them again. After all, she hadn’t exactly understood the aesthetic, but she’d liked his coat, hadn’t she?

Graphite pencil scratches against the paper as he works, a small smile on his face. Yes, that’s right. Ib had liked his coat. That’s good enough for him.

Next time, he’ll show her new designs. Maybe he could even sew her a dress. Does she like dresses…? There’s a million things he wants to ask her, tell her, show her. Not the least of which: macarons. So he has to be patient.

Garry sits, and designs, and waits.

 

\-----

 

It’s two weeks before Ib’s parents notice the paintings jammed in her closet, and what comes out of her mouth as an excuse spirals into this, into a dining room table littered with colored pencils and different types of lead and open books on art with graphite smudges on multiple pages.

“I… I put them in there because I was jealous!” Ib had stammered, wilting under her parent’s confused and most likely angry stares. “I mean… en… vi-ous. I was envious,” she corrected, sounding out the word to be sure of it. They always scold her for getting words wrong like that. “After the museum, I… I was envious that I can’t draw… and…”

Her parents had seemed skeptical– “This is still an overreaction, honey,” – but accepted it. After all, she’s never lied to them before. And so, when they’d agreed to move the paintings to other rooms, they’d also gotten her set up with proper art supplies. “Start with the basics,” her father instructed. “One must have a proper foundation to begin learning anything.”  
  
The basics turned out to be very boring, but…

But still, anything that she drew herself was infinitely less terrifying than something hanging on a wall. And so, when she gets home from school, she draws. Simple things, shapes and bodies, over and over like the books say. It’s soothing, in a way, the drag of pencil against paper. Art hurt her, but not all of it. She wants to draw more of the good art.

And then, on the weekends, she goes for a walk.

She doesn’t tell her parents.

The guilt nags at her, it really does. She doesn’t feel very good about telling her mother that she’ll be outside playing. It feels even less good to realize she hasn’t been caught because no one ever comes to check. But still, every weekend without fail she repeats this pattern, and she goes for a walk.

The Guertena Exhibit takes twenty seven minutes to walk to.

She doesn’t have time to wait at the entrance so she plunges inside each time, scurrying through the building after scribbling her check-in signature messily. The attendant knows her by name now, had laughed good-naturedly and agreed when she’d asked in a quiet voice to “please don’t tell my parents? I live just down the street and really loved the exhibits, so…”

She never spends long, flitting from hallway to hallway. He’s never there. Sometimes she pauses, stares at the paintings and swears she can see them move, hear them speak, but she doesn’t linger and she never goes down _that_ hallway. What had Garry called it…? Fabric… Fabre…

Fabricated World?

She makes sure to never pass that painting anymore, and just hopes that Garry wouldn’t go near it either. By the end of the month, a tiny fear begins to grow. There’s no way he got sucked back in, is there…?

She also makes sure to always ignore that thought. Garry might not even be coming back. She really does believe him, believe he’ll keep his promise somehow, but maybe not by meeting again here. After all, the museum is still scary and he’s kind of a scaredy cat. Though he did protect her... Can scaredy cats be brave?

Ib ultimately decides that Garry is a brave scaredy cat and heads home again, head held high and proper even as she worriedly bites her lip, a habit she can’t indulge in at home. When she gets there, she’ll stop. She’ll scuff up her knees just a little bit with dirt, because her mother hates stains on her clothes but likes to know that she’s played, that she picked flowers or something else and then she’ll wash off the dirt and…

...flowers…

She doesn’t think she’ll be picking flowers again anytime soon.

_You must know the weight of life._

_THIEF_

...Maybe ever.

But for now, she can draw. She can draw, even if she’s scared of art and flowers and dolls and things she can’t explain to her parents. She can’t really explain it to anyone, though it isn’t as if she’s got anyone to tell besides them anyway. She doesn’t like the kids at her school. They’re loud and rude, and her eyes…

Now that she thinks about it, she’s kind of surprised Garry wasn’t afraid. She wants to ask him next time they meet. After all, she thinks she looks a lot like the red ladies… though she tries not to think about it too much. It’s hard enough to sleep as it is, hard enough to close her eyes without feeling mannequin hands reaching for her. For as much as they tease her about her eyes, no one has noticed the faint circles beginning to form under them, tangible evidence of nights spent gasping awake, sweating and shaking. She knows _why_ it’s happening. Garry told her it’s only natural to be scared. But knowing the reason doesn’t make it less terrifying, or less upsetting that she can’t just sleep.

And she’s sure the other kids don’t have any reason for the mean things they say. They’re just awful and she ignores them and if she’s lucky, they ignore her too. That’s okay, though. She doesn’t really want friends, anyway. It hadn’t gone so well with Mary. She just…

...wants to find Garry.

And if she could maybe do it before her mother finds out, that would make her really happy. Mother is _scary_ when she’s angry. Ib shudders at the thought as she slips back inside, heading for the dining room table out of habit more than anything else. Slowly but surely, her sketchbook fills, red and blue pencils inevitably worn down the most.

“...I wonder if Garry would like to see these?” Ib muses aloud, rubbing tiredly at her eyes. It echoes off the empty walls and she tries to muster a smile, just a tiny one as she nods decisively. “...I’ll bring them, next time.”

 


End file.
